


After the Fall

by thelosechesters



Category: Sherlock (TV), johnlock - Fandom
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-01-31
Updated: 2014-01-31
Packaged: 2018-01-10 16:17:41
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Major Character Death, No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 1,576
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1161875
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/thelosechesters/pseuds/thelosechesters
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>After the shocking and tear jerking death of Sherlock Holmes, John Watson doesn't know how to cope. He lost his best friend...and his lover. This is the tale of what happens when John's whole world falls apart. No copyright intended. I hope you enjoy this Johnlock tale. Enjoy!</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. The Return

John Watson walked into the lonely flat, a wave of agonizing pain rushing through him. It has been three years to the day since he last entered his flat that he shared with the one person he ever loved, who died at the hands of a horrible man named Jim Moriarty.

Dust was collecting on the banister, and a foul odor was in the room. The only sound was that of John's cane- a thing he hadn't used in months, but the terrible pain in his leg where he was shot in Afghanistan was beginning to return- and of his breathing. Without notice, John felt a single, hot tear descend its way down his cheek. He wiped it way in one brisk movement. He proceeded to continuing his way around that abandoned flat. On the right wall, where Sherlock had once shot when he was bored and the obnoxious yellow smiley face were still there, the yellow fading with age. He felt another tear fall.

John moved on over to the desk, which was still, to this day, cluttered with file after file, book after book. He picked up the first file he found. It read, "The Famous Sherlock Holmes- A Hero or a Fake?". John slammed it down on the table with a loud thump. He went over to the mirror and banister, and picked up the skull that rested there to examine it and noticed a dozen spiders crawling around in the eyes of the skull. His face crumpled up in disgust and threw the skull on the floor. No need for it now.

For some reason, that even John didn't know, he went back to Sherlock's old bedroom. He ran his fingers through the closet, feeling every one of Sherlock's button-up shirts that were always too small for him. He touched the sheets that he defiantly wore to Buckingham Palace, for he didn't bother to put clothes on. John felt himself smile at the memory.

"We solve crimes, I blog about it, and he forgets his pants. I wouldn't hold out too much hope," He had said to Sherlock's brother Mycroft.

That felt like yesterday, not almost four years ago. John picked up the one thing he came here to get- A British Army Browning L9A1 rifle- and then walked back into the living area. Rifle in hand and cane on the floor, John fell to his knees. He no longer could stand it. He was sobbing at this point, not caring that the lovely, but lonely Mrs. Hudson had walked up behind him. She put an old, wrinkly hand on his shoulder.

"John, I think you've had enough time in here." She said, her voice raspy. John looked up at her for the first time in years. She was old. Very old. Probably only had a few years left. John held her hand gently.

"Thank you Mrs. Hudson. Would you mind not to clean anything out yet? I'll come back and get everything another day. I'll have to talk to Mary about what she wants to keep."

"No problem, Deary. You come back when ever you need to."

That was the last thing she ever said to him.


	2. Happy Anniversary

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I feel like I should also add that I wrote this right after watching the Reichenbach Fall, before season 3 started when I was a mess of tears and snot.

A few days after leaving the flat, John decided to visit Sherlock's grave. He hadn't done that in a few months. Today seemed fitting, for it was the anniversary of the meeting of Sherlock and John. Today was the day that Sherlock proved he was a genius, that he was a sociopath, and that he cared about John. He let John in, not just in his flat, but in his life and his cases. Something Sherlock Holmes was not known for.

John carried with him a dozen red tulips: a symbol of love. Not only was today the anniversary of their meeting, but the anniversary of the day that John fell in love. He headed to Sherlock's grave, the ground undisturbed, as if no one visited him ever, which was most likely true. Sherlock didn't have friends; he only had one.

A light rain began to fall, making it hard for John to walk in the mud. He was used to it though. It was always raining when he visited. It seemed as if the death of Sherlock and the uniting of lovers made Mother Nature herself cry.

John sat in silence for a few minutes, unmoving, and unable to form words. When he finally felt he could speak, he was only able to say three words- "Happy Anniversary, Sherlock."

He put the tulips on the foot of the grave, and walked off.

Little did he know, Sherlock was there the whole time watching from the shadows, as he had when John first visited him. Sherlock had Mycroft keep an eye on him so he would know when John came to visit. He came every single time because he missed John dearly. He missed him with all of his heart.

When he was sure that John was completely out of sight, Sherlock left his perch in the shadows, and walked to his grave. He picked up the tulips, sat on the wet ground, and hugged the flowers with all of his might.

"Happy Anniversary, John." He whispered, chocking on tears. Sherlock was there for another hour, simply holding the flowers and watching the rain fall. He suddenly stood up and reached for his phone.

He was going to call Mycroft.  
It was time to go home.


	3. The Finale

It was a month after Sherlock last saw John at his grave. He was coming home; home to his John, to the love of his life. He was happier than ever. Every step he took was filled with a joyful bounce. Mycroft was not as happy, following behind him with a sluggish step.

They arrived at 221B Baker Street, where Mycroft told John to meet him. He knocked on the door and Mrs. Hudson answered. She was so surprised to see him that she actually squealed and jumped in his arms. Sherlock explained, and told her that he needed to go to his flat. She gave him his old key, and he ran up the stairs. Mycroft stayed down with Mrs. Hudson.

Sherlock threw open the door, the hinges creaking as it hit the wall. He looked around frantically. He told John to be here at this exact time. 'Okay, maybe he's late,' He thought. He walked around the flat, taking in every aspect of the place. He took in every change, every off detail. Where was his skull? Why were some of his files on the floor? Why was his closet opened?

John must have been here, picking out what to get rid of. Or he might have forgotten what the place looked like. It has been four years. Wow, only four years? It felt like a decade...maybe even longer.

Sherlock took a seat on the couch where he solved multiple cases. He waited for hours upon hours, but John didn't show up. Sherlock, being the sociopathic genius he was, thought of every worst case scenario possible. What if he was on his way, but was in a car wreck and was paralyzed? What if Lestrade had this weird grudge on John and Sherlock, so he arrested John? What if he didn't care that Mycroft had something important to tell him? 

"Sherlock, stop!" He yelled at himself. At this exact moment, Mycroft came up the stairs, a look of grief on his unshaven face.

"Mycroft, what's wrong?" Sherlock snapped. He angered himself at the thoughts he was just previously thinking. Nothing happened to John, he just lost track of the time.

"I'm so sorry Sherlock, he just couldn't live without you." Mycroft cried, tears that he never shed in front of Sherlock fell.

"What are you talking about? I saw him a month ago, he was perfectly fine."

"He visited here a few weeks ago, to pick up something. Your gun. He tried for a few months to put it off, but he just couldn't. He couldn't live without you. He was pronounced dead three days ago."

Sherlock didn't know what to do. He jumped off the couch and was in Mycroft's face to yell, "Stop lying to me."

"I'm not Sherlock. I'm sorry."

Sherlock walked to the middle of the room and fell to his knees, in the exact same spot John fell weeks ago, not that he would ever know this. He put his head in his hands and began to cry- no sob- loudly. Mycroft put his hand on Sherlock's shoulder and gripped it. This was the first time Mycroft ever tried to comfort Sherlock since he was ten.

Sherlock composed himself after an hour of crying, and stormed out of 221B Baker Street, saying nothing to Mrs. Hudson or to Mycroft. Where he was going, even he didn't know. He surprised himself when he was looking at St. Bartholomew Hospital, where he leaped to his "death". There, he again was on his knees crying.

That was the last anyone ever saw Sherlock Holmes. Some believe he was truly dead, but Mycroft knew the truth. The day he found out about John, Sherlock committed suicide.

Just as John couldn't live without Sherlock, Sherlock couldn't live without his John. And that was the end. Mycroft moved on eventually, Mrs. Hudson died of stroke, and as for everyone else, all was well for they knew nothing of Sherlock's return, John's death, or Sherlock's second fall.


End file.
